


green thumbs, red hearts

by thetys



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Strangers to Lovers, god they're so in love it's painful, kun is a chef and sicheng is a cfo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetys/pseuds/thetys
Summary: in which kun can't grow a plant to save his life, sicheng is his savior, and living on the same floor as the love of your life leads to so much more.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Qian Kun
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62
Collections: kuniversism





	green thumbs, red hearts

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to thank the kunff mod for being so patient with me as i tried to scrap together some semblance of a plot. i was super excited for the magical realism prompt and then halfway through i was like. wait a minute. i messed this all up. so!! this was my last ditch effort to not disappoint all the kun lovers out there! i hope it worked!
> 
> this is prompt #26 :] enjoy!

“Sicheng?”

“Gē, this better be important. I have a proposal meeting from a potential supplier in an hour.”

“Oh, never mind then, your meeting is more important. I’ll tell you later.”

“Then you wouldn’t have called me now. Just say it gē.”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“I’m begging you to spit it out already.”

“The aurelia is dying.”

“... You have got to be kidding me. I’ll be there in twenty.”

* * *

Kun is many things. An entrepreneur, a visionary, a veritable pioneer in all arts of culinary nature, and his baking isn’t something to scoff at either. His expertise and skill in the kitchen can be seen in every fine chop, every masterful slice.

His skill with vegetables falls flat on its face once he has to grow them on his own. He bought the best fertilizer, built his own garden on the balcony, planted and nourished the seeds by hand, and yet he hasn’t had a single successful harvest. The carrot stems wilted, the tomatoes shriveled, and the basil plants were spotted with brown and yellow. His attempts at divination never helped either. Whenever he tried to determine the effects of his actions in the future, he inevitably returned to the current dilemma: Qian Kun can’t grow a plant to save his life.

So the arrival of Sicheng in his life is an occasion worthy of a few rituals and prayers of thanks to whatever god is watching over him. Sicheng isn’t a gardener of any kind, nor has he ever truly worked a day of his life. His hands, which Kun has spent an embarrassing amount of time admiring, are smooth and thin, pale ghosts flitting over his plants every time Kun calls him over and subsequently offers to cook for him, a poor attempt to flirt disguised as gratitude.

So Kun has a problem. A problem that started with the sudden arrival of the only other tenant on his floor.

  
  


Kun startled out of the book he was reading, the echoes of a crash outside his door audible through the thick glass and his bluetooth headphones. He pulled them out and put them away in their case before approaching the door slowly. The building owner hadn’t told him someone would be coming to his floor. He hadn’t asked for any home technician, and he was the only one on this floor.

He unlatched the door, making sure the door chain was secure, before carefully pulling it open. No one was outside, but the door at the other end of the hall was wide open, and three piles of boxes surrounded it. Kun narrowed his eyes and undid the chain to step outside. There were muffled noises coming out of the open door of the other apartment, and he took a moment to examine the boxes before asking who was there. Most of them were mundanely labeled: utensils, stationery, and pots and pans. The bigger ones carried a computer set up, complete with a separate PC and monitor and dismantled pieces for furniture here and there.

“Hello?” Kun called into through the door, and inside there was another crash as something – metal, from the sound of it – fell, accompanied by a loud profanity that made Kun wince. “I’m sorry for startling you.”

“No, it’s fine,” was the response, and then a young man, slim with black hair and pronounced cheekbones appears in the door frame. “It’s not your fault. Did I interrupt you while I was moving in?” 

“Ah, I heard a crash earlier and got a little worried.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting a new tenant. It’s been only me on this floor since I moved in.” He bowed once and smiled reassuringly. “I’m Qian Kun.”

The other returned the bow and a weaker smile. “I’m Dong Sicheng. I’m sorry for the disturbance, I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“If I’m not imposing, would you like some help?” The relief on Sicheng’s face spoke louder than words, and for the next two hours, Kun got intimately acquainted with Sicheng’s apartment. It isn’t too different from his own – the open floor plan is almost identical, with a large gathering room leading to a balcony connected to a kitchen with a bar counter, a dining space separated from the gathering room by a wall, and a hallway lined with doors leading to bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, and a studio space. The only real difference is the extensive wood paneling that seemed to make Sicheng’s half of the floor seem much homely than his own. Instead of sterile metal, the warm red-tinted wood welcomed him with open arms.

“That’s the last box,” Kun said to the empty kitchen, setting down the utensils box. He sighed and glanced at the watch on his wrist. “It’s already seven too.”

“It’s that late already? Damn it,” Sicheng groaned. “I’m going to have to order takeout again.”

It was a reflex reaction for Kun to offer his own cooking instead, and after some initial surprise, Sicheng accepted it. Within the hour, Kun and Sicheng were sitting at his table with a simple helping of Peking duck and scallion pancakes, with some onions, cucumbers, and bean sauce on the side. It’s nothing incredibly fancy, exactly the type of simple dinner he’d make for himself after a long day at his restaurant, but the delight on Sicheng’s face after only the first few bites makes his ears flush at the tips.

“The spices in this are incredible,” he complimented, and Kun smiled beatifically in response. He’s a naturally reserved person around strangers, and garnering so much praise off of a simple dinner dish isn’t something he’s used to. All of his friends these days are in a similar line of work, and they rarely cook for each other.

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve gotten very good at cooking Peking duck over the years, and it’s been some time since I’ve been able to share it with someone else.” That was the end of their dinner conversation, although the silence didn’t carry much awkwardness. Sicheng insisted on staying to help clean, but soon they parted ways without many expectations for the months to come.

* * *

“I swear, this is the fifth time you’ve managed to kill my beloved aurelia. Are you sure your ability isn’t to kill with your touch?”

“You literally saw me in my kitchen holding up at least seven knives, two pots, and a cutting board with my mind. I’m pretty sure death via touch isn’t my ability.”

“Gē, I love you, but this is ridiculous. Look at the poor mustard plant. You do realize I need it for all those archaic ‘eyes of newt’ recipes, right?”

“I swear it’s not my fault! I watered it like you said I should, give it proper, indirect sunlight, and it still has the audacity to wilt every four days like I’ve strangled it to death!”

“Alright, alright. I gotta get going, the meeting starts in thirty and I can’t afford being late to this one. Love you, bye.”

“Bye, love you too.”

* * *

He and Sicheng had a system, three months into living on the same floor. It went like this: they had busy schedules, but they always ate dinner together, and afterward they would have a nice drink of sparkling cider or the vintage wine Kun kept aside for special guests. Kun always made it home first, around 8:30 every night, and set straight to cooking. Sometimes he made elaborate dumpling and noodle soups with a few duck and pork dishes on the side, along with their own sets of sauces made from scratch. Other times he stuck to some simple dried scallop with radish and banmian, pieces of home when he feels nostalgic. Sicheng thought they were all delicious. After Kun found out he was from Wenzhou, he researched their cuisine, called up a friend he knew from the region, and tried to emulate the dishes he thought Sicheng might have eaten during his childhood. It was nice to see Sicheng’s smile when he noticed the jin yu man tang and san si qiao yu on the table, and even nicer to have that smile directed at him.

Sicheng didn’t have as strict of a routine. Usually, he’d be back at his apartment by 9:00, and they’d eat at 9:30, but occasionally (read: at least ten times a month – he’s been keeping count), he’d get held back at a last-minute meeting between executives or get stuck finalizing the financial reports for the week, or the month, and one memorable time last month he had to organize the reports for the whole quarter. It wasn’t that Sicheng didn’t have plenty of people to spread the workload out on, but he had an infuriating habit of needing every aspect of his report to match his perfectionist vision. So sometimes Sicheng stumbled into Kun’s apartment still fully clothed in his work suit with his briefcase in hand, and Kun learned to stop questioning after the third time it happened.

The night in question hadn’t started strangely. Sicheng had sent a text at 8:38 saying he would be home at around 9:00, so they were on track for a 9:30 dinner. Kun set his phone aside and got to work on their dinner. He’d tried experimenting with a different entrée dish – ravioli with a pesto and butternut squash filling – and was flying through the motions of kneading the dough while he set the cutting board to cut up the squash into easier pieces for mashing when he heard the lock on the front door click. He froze in place, eyes darting toward the cutting board still hovering in the air, the potato masher still grinding away at the squash, and then at the opening door and Sicheng’s expression.

Sicheng, halfway through his greeting, pauses as he reaches down to take his shoe off. He slowly straightens up into a standing position again, all the while staring directly at the floating kitchen tools. His eyes shift from Kun to the tools, back to Kun, back to the tools. Kun forces his lips into a grimace despite wanting nothing more than to throw himself off his 17th-story balcony.

“Uh, please don’t tell anyone?” he asked, frantically pleading with his eyes.

“... Levitation?” Sicheng questioned, squinting at the tools. “It doesn’t look like gravity manipulation. But then again, levitation doesn’t let things move.” Kun continued to stand in place like a statue.

“You’re… You’re not freaking out?” He lowered the cutting board and bowl with the squash back onto the counter as Sicheng rolled his eyes.

“Would be kind of dumb of me to freak out when I’m a plant witch.”

“... You’re a what?”

“Watch this.” Sicheng took off his shoes completely and strode over to the balcony where Kun kept his makeshift garden. Kun followed him, still baffled by Sicheng’s calmness and that he not only had an ability, but was a witch on top of that – like him. People who had any sort of supernatural ability were already hard enough to come across.

Sicheng glanced through the variety of plants Kun was trying – and failing – to keep alive and winced noticeably. He didn’t say anything as he cupped the dying leaves of his mint plant, but Kun felt thoroughly chastened despite knowing it wasn’t really his fault. A short, murmured chant later, the mint plant was returning to life, regaining its bright color and height and seeming to breathe for the first time in a week.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks. Do you even know how to take care of plants?”

“I’ve been trying my best!”

“Watering once the soil dries out and keeping them out of direct sunlight?”

“Yes! They just never want to stay alive,” Kun pouted, and Sicheng stared at him for a moment longer than probably necessary.

“Well, it seems the only solution is for me to come around more often.”

* * *

Kun crouches in front of the aurelia and lifts one of its petals with his finger. “Can you please stay alive for longer than four days? Is that too much to ask? It’s our anniversary and you’re already making a mess of it.” He lets the petal slip off his finger and stretches as he stands.

“Alright, let’s get to it.” They’ve gone out to fancy restaurants before, especially on their first few dates, but both of them had quickly realized they were bored of the fine-dining date experience. After all, Kun is the owner and head chef of King’s Banquet and Sicheng sits on fancy executive dinners as part of his position as CFO, so the allure of fine dining had washed off of them ages ago. Now, they enjoy a cozy, casual movie date with a home dinner more than anything, and Kun is determined to make this one the coziest, most casual date yet.

* * *

The first time they kissed, it was an accident.

Well, not exactly an “accident”, but they hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t even asked on impulse. It was more like they had both leaned in at the exact same time, expecting the other to hold back, and ended up bumping noses in a cliché reenactment of a teen rom-com. It was awkward, clumsy, all things your first kiss with your date should be, but it seemed magnified in the light of how much Kun felt – still feels – for Sicheng. It was always easier than it should have been to catch his minute expressions, the tells in his body that said he was uncomfortable or relaxed or ecstatic. Kun had taken him to the zoo once, and amidst the cooing over fluffy parrots and jagged eagles, Sicheng launched into a mumbled discussion of how zoos were immoral examples of animal cruelty, and how would we feel if we were put in cages and transported miles and miles from our homeland? The way Sicheng waved his hands at particularly heated examples made his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and it really shouldn’t have been as cute as Kun found it.

The second time they kissed was still on impulse, but at least they’d talked about it this time.

The third was a slow, thoughtful kiss after Kun gave Sicheng his birthday gift: the aurelia they now kept on the windowsill next to the balcony door.

Kun doesn’t remember their fourth, or fifth, or any number of kisses after that. But the sentiment hasn’t really changed. It’s a “thank you”, an “I love you”, an “I’m so lucky to be with you”, all wrapped into one neat little package with a bow on top. It’s a little present to open up every time their lips met again and again and again.

* * *

He and Sicheng have a system, four years into their relationship. It goes like this: they eat dinner together and then have a nice cuddle on Sicheng’s much softer couch while a movie that they only half pay attention to plays as background noise.

The Dongpo pork is fried and soaked in wine, his shrimp fry recipe is simmering on the stove, and their typical assortment of side dishes sit on the table. It’s enough food to last two more days of lunch, so Kun starts mentally planning smaller dinners for the next three days so that they don’t have too much of an overflow. He’d already used the spare key Sicheng had given him on their first anniversary to set up the movie in his apartment, which was another part of their tradition: dinner at Kun’s, then a short walk across the floor to Sicheng’s for a movie. Sometimes they would be tired enough to fall asleep together on the couch – sometimes Sicheng would offer his bed to sleep together in. Usually, they went their separate ways with a kiss on the cheek or temple or on the nose, and that would be that.

They’d talked about getting engaged, a conversation that still made Kun’s heartbeat speed up whenever he remembered it. There isn’t any issue with money, and they both agree they’re in a place to declare lifelong commitment. After all, there’s only so many times Kun can berate Sicheng for leaving his shoes on the floor or his room a mess before he gets used to it. And while they technically still owned separate apartments, they’re over at the other’s often enough that it’s like they live together already.

The only thing stopping them is timing. Kun isn’t planning on proposing tonight, because that makes their already cliché relationship more so, and he doesn’t care to have his sous chef, Ten, laugh at him more than he already does. But the ring is hidden away, and when he thinks the opportunity right, he has every intention to ask Sicheng to be his husband for as long as he’ll have him.

Sicheng shows up at 9:45, and Kun good-naturedly rolls his eyes at the delay. Sicheng pokes his tongue out at him before following it up with a beautiful smile, eyes scrunching along with the single dimple on his left cheek. He’s dressed in a comfortable maroon sweater emblazoned with college logo, which ironically enough was not one he ever went to, and his newest favorite pair of joggers – the older pair thrown out after more than one argument that something with those many holes was more of a slice of cheese than anything wearable. Kun is in a similar outfit: a forest green hoodie and black pajama pants. What’s the need for anything fancier when they were four years into dating?

“What’s the movie tonight?” Sicheng asks as they sit down. Kun shakes his head and tuts.

“You know better than to ask that, Qīnài de. I’ve never given in before.”

“You only pull out the pet names when you want me to not be suspicious, so by my deductions, it’s going to be the entire first season of Sherlock.” Kun’s sigh of defeat is all Sicheng needs. He bumps his foot against Kun’s ankle under the table as he almost vibrates out of his skin, trying to eat all his food as quickly as possible while still savoring every bite.

“I spoil you too much,” Kun mumbles, although a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Sicheng coos and tells him not to look so upset, and that it isn’t his fault he had such crazy intelligence. Kun points a threatening pair of chopsticks at him. “Keep this up and you might not find out what my present is.”

Sicheng shuts up immediately.

They clean up and box away the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch, and Kun steps onto the balcony to bring in the aforementioned gift. Its simple wrapping belies just how much money was spent on it, and Kun finally feels the quickening of his heart that always comes when he starts to second-guess his gifts. But Sicheng looks immensely excited, and he’s already eyeing the gift with curiosity, so he hands it over and hopes for the best.

Sicheng tears apart the wrapping like an animal, and Kun silently mourns the loss of all the wrapping paper that could have been reused. Then he pauses. Looks stunned, his eyes darting between Kun and the package.

“This is… this is a potion set.”

“Yes it is.”

“You actually listened to me rambling about plant properties in various potions for the past three months?”

“Of course?” Kun tilts his head. “Was I not supposed to? Do you not like it?”

“No, no, it’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just. Surprised that you remembered something like that.”

“You talked a lot about how much you wished you were able to actually use the knowledge you learned from your grandmother, so I thought you could start small. It’s not much of a potion set, but it’s something.” Sicheng smiles sweetly and the stutters of Kun’s heart fade away.

“Ah, I feel bad about my gift now. It’s more of a joke than anything else.” Kun rolls his eyes and takes the gift being given to him.

“It wouldn’t be a gift from you if it wasn’t a joke,” he mumbles, carefully picking apart the tape to keep the wrapping intact. It’s soft and small, and Kun isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely nothing along the lines of fluffy socks with Sicheng’s face on it. Which means the moment he catches sight of them, he’s already halfway to tears.

“So you like them?” All Sicheng gets in response is wheezing laughter, which must be answer enough. “Look, they even have little grippy things on the bottom!”

“Grippy things,” Kun chokes out, and somehow the whole situation becomes even funnier. His lungs and sides burn from how hard he laughed, and the socks covered in Sicheng’s face are still clutched tightly in his hands, the wrapping paper crumpling in the other, and he thinks about the future they could have.

Years with Sicheng and his little garden in the back. He likes the thought of that.


End file.
